


These are a Few of My Favourite (or Least Favourite) Things

by Colourless_Green_Ideas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, BAMF Peggy Carter, ClinTasha if you squint, Clint dies, Deaf Clint Barton, How Do I Tag, Mentions of Death, Other, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Red Room, comic canon for some of it, same with phil/clint and stucky, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourless_Green_Ideas/pseuds/Colourless_Green_Ideas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has things they love and things they hate, especially the Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint and Rain

Clint had always loved thunderstorms. Even when his father and Trickshot came around and stole the soothing sounds, he still loved how they looked, especially at night. At night, when the whole world was painted in black and white until one stray strike of pure light and energy leaped down from the clouds to touch the earth, bringing back all of the colors of day, only to burn out, leaving behind the greys and blacks with a deep rumble that can be felt for miles.

He loved how the rain washed away all the unsavory things the day left behind, like dirt and sweat and blood, cleansing him of his sins, giving him a blank slate with which to go forward.

He loved how some people hid, pulling out umbrellas and jackets to shelter themselves, afraid of what would happen if they didn’t, and how the children, young and unafraid, ran out into the falling water with full force, laughing as they jumped in puddles and spotted rainbows in their galoshes and shorts, soaking up the rain like it gave them life.

Most of all, Clint loved the memories.

He loved when him and Barney used to be those carefree kids, kicking stale rainwater at each other as they laughed their lives away. 

He loved the time when he stood at his parents’ grave, looking up into the clouds that threatened to drown him as he outwardly frowned, but inside he gave a bloodthirsty grin, glad that the source of his constant pain was finally gone from his life. 

He loved those days when the shows at the circus were cancelled because of the storms, because those days he could sit with the bearded lady and tell lewd jokes while he sharpened his arrows and she read aloud his favorite adventure stories.

He loved when he was on the run from whatever government agency, when thick dark clouds poured out their souls as he ran, knowing exactly where to step to lose his pursuers because they were afraid of the rain, the lightning, the thunder. He wasn’t.

He loved the time he sat in a restaurant in Singapore, watching the water fall onto the pavement outside when a man in a perfectly dry suit sat across from him, recruitment details in the folds of his jacket.

He loved the day he sat on a rooftop in Moscow, too long hair falling into his face as he waited for a petite young blonde to appear – though even then he knew she was truly a red head – knowing that, if he was given the order to kill, he would make a different call.

He loved the night when he sat far above the tented crater, bow at the ready as he watched a hulking mass tear through their meager defenses to get to a hammer, knowing this guy would be a great ally someday.

He loved sitting out on the balcony of Avengers Tower feeling the rain drop down on his head as he swung his legs into the air fifty stories above ground, feeling Nat’s hand in his as they mourned together, holding each other close as they regaled stories about Phil “Agent” Coulson, not knowing the man was only a few hundred miles away, having adventures of his own.

Clint loved the rain, and all the things it brought with it, because without it, he never would have found his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each of the chapters will be set up like this, for the most part, but whether it's a love or a hate relationship depends on the character.  
> Comment if you like it, or even if you don't, any feedback is great, especially since this is my first published piece.


	2. Natasha and Red

Natasha hated the color red.

Red was everything she had ever hated. Blood, fire, failure, all red.

She first hated it when her best friend, Vitalyia, came back from her first mission covered in it, as much from her own injuries as her target’s. Vitalyia died that day, and reminded Natasha why she couldn't have friends, not if she wanted to live.

She hated it when she was sent on her first kill, her target’s burgundy shirt hiding the evidence of her deed.

She hated it when she first was ordered to seduce her target, ruby nails digging into his back just far enough to leave marks, poisonous cherry lipstick smeared over his own lips as he fell limp to the ground.

She hated how it looked framing her face, enough to cut it all off, leaving ginger locks on the bathroom floor as she went, earning her a meeting with Ivan that left more puffy scars on her porcelain skin, smalls enough to be hidden, but big enough not to be forgotten.

She hated it when it burned her, bright flames hovering in her vision as she stared down the picture of her latest mark – still alive – with the word FAILED stamped across it in crimson ink.

She hated when the Merlot was subtly forced down her throat, Ivan patting her on the back as he congratulated her – graduate of the Red Room.

She hated it when it was all she saw, a fleeting flash of maroon and gold, before it stole the heart of her partner, feeding his dreams with hopes of one day becoming more than a thief, aspirations of heroics floating through his mind.

She hated it when she saw it on the tips of the arrows of the same man, staring her down as he contemplated the outcome of her feeble existence.

She hated when she saw it pulsing through her fingers as she pushed at Clint’s chest, not letting him die even after his heart stopped, with nothing she could do but wait for the damn medics to show up and just push, knowing that even if he lived this time, there was no guarantee on the next.

She hated when she saw the rusty streak fall back through the portal, not making any attempt to stop himself as he fell, lifeless, through the clouds.

She hated when it was a star, shining bright on the arm of her oldest memory and most vivid nightmare, hunting down the only good man she’d ever met.

She hated red, and everything it stood for, except for when she started to see it on the Captain’s shield and Thor’s cape, the accessories of those whom she decided were solely good, an impossible feat in today’s world. Red, she decided, might not be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vitalyia is a made up character. Her name in Russian is the female form of the name Vitale, meaning life.  
> The part about the flash of maroon and gold was a callback to the comics. Clint was a thief before he was a hero, running around with Natasha on her missions after the Red Room, but he decided it'd be better to live the life of a hero when he saw Iron Man fly by and save a bunch of kids on a malfunctioning carnival ride. The more you know, right?  
> The part with Clint dying is from what I imagine happened in Budapest, which I may or may not write about later, in which Clint's heart stops, but he's revived by the paramedics soon enough, and the part with the star is meant to insinuate Bucky as the Winter Soldier who, in the comics, trained the Widows at the Red Room, and in the MCU also shot Natasha, so I thought something about memories and nightmares that was ambiguous enough to fit both was in order, so as to keep with the mixed canon of the piece.  
> Again, please comment. Any feedback is helpful, plus kudos make my day :)


	3. Tony and Heartbeats

Tony hated heartbeats. He hated the steady beat they drummed out, a constant reminder of how it could stop at any minute, leaving an empty husk in its wake.

He hated when he snuck up on his father, sleeping soundly in his lab, and heard the pulse, low in his ears, crushing any childlike dreams that the reason his father didn't love him was because he was robot, and robots didn't have hearts.

He hated when he heard his own in his ears after a fight with Howard, letting him know that he had really let him hurt him, make him angry.

He hated his mom gathered him up on the day he left for MIT, tears streaming down her face as she begged him not to leave, but all he could hear was the pounding in her chest.

He hated when that pounding stopped after sluggishly pushing out all of her blood onto the pavement next to a McDonald’s near the highway, and how no one cared to check, to call, to help in any way as his mother’s heart stopped, along with his own.

He hated how the shrapnel threatened to stop his for good, slowly pushing through his muscles to finish their mission.

He hated when he felt Yinsen’s slow to a stop, signaling the end of the journey for his friend, but just the beginning of his own.

He hated when his father’s best friend – his own mentor – had taken away his, leaving him gasping for air as he struggled to find a replacement.

He hated how JARVIS could never have one, while people like Ivan and Hammer did.

He hated how he could feel the poison coursing through his body with every beat, dragging the life out of him slowly, agonizingly slowly.

He hated how Bruce had to monitor his, checking every hour on the hour for any changes, as if one more beat would kill him – despite knowing that it very well could kill not him, but thousands of innocent people.

He hated how it felt losing his, only to have it brought back to life kicking and screaming by the power of the Other Guy’s roar.

He hated how he could feel it pounding against the arc reactor after a panic attack, moving the shrapnel closer and closer with every beat.

He hated how he stopped being able to feel it after the arc reactor was gone, hated how empty he felt without something for his stupid little heart to pound against.

Tony hated heartbeats, but since they were the only thing keeping most of them alive, he guessed he had to live with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, I love feedback of any kind :)


	4. Steve and Warmth

Steve loved warmth.

He loved what it meant on sunny summer days when him and Bucky would go meet up to play baseball in the park, even though no one ever really wanted scrawny little Steve Rogers on their team.

He loved when he felt it down to his very bones as he watched the fire flicker to life before him, huddled up underneath a blanket with his best friend as they talked about nothing and everything all at once, content living in their own little bubble of happiness, even just for the night.

He loved how it meant there would be less coughing, both from him and his ma because there was no frigid air to freeze up their lungs in the middle of the night.

He loved how it felt when it welled up inside him every time he saw something worth painting, like sunsets and fallen leaves and even Bucky, on the rare occasion his friend would sit down long enough for a good drawing.

He loved how it was the first thing he felt after the serum, the blood running through his system better, faster, letting him finally shake off the feeling of ice in his toes he’d carried around all his life.

He loved when it came in the form of a nice meal, sending fire down his throat as he ate, but not caring because in all their rough and tumble looks, the Howling Commandos were always on the lookout for a nice warm meal wherever they could get it.

He loved the feel of the fire when they could afford it in the Russian tundra, almost always too afraid to start one because the Nazis could track the smoke in the clouds, or the planes over head would see the sparks on a clear night.

He loved when it came with a good workout, like the time him and Peggy had a push-up contest that lasted almost two hours one night when it got cold and they had to move to keep their blood flowing, fueling the blush that stayed on his cheeks whenever anyone asked about it because of course he had to drop out at 106 when Peggy could go on one arm to 107.

He loved when he first felt it after the ice, blood finally warm enough to race through his veins once again after what he liked to call the Seventy Year Freeze – but only when he was alone, of course.

He loved how it felt in his marshmallow of a bed as he woke up, reminding him that this was the first time he had a real bed with real, thick blankets that would cover his toes in the night.

He loved when it filled up his chest when he first saw Bucky’s face, almost a century after he’d fallen, taking a piece of Steve’s heart with it.

He loved when he felt it in Peggy’s weak, bony hands, reassuring him that she’d live a while more, that she wasn't dead quite yet.

Steve loved warmth in every sense of the word, and he tried his best to portray that to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of what I have pre-written, but don't fret, the rest should be done before Monday. Until then, comments are wonderful and really help me write faster, I promise.


End file.
